


Beautiful creatures

by Lumeriel



Series: Middle-earth's Fairytales [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pinocchio Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Dolls, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Sexual Experimentation, Silmarils
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2020-10-28 05:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: Fëanor made a promise, a promise that he will keep no matter if it takes him forever.Unless a certain Vala has secrets to unveil - secrets that the Valar would not tell anyone.Who wants to buy a beautiful doll?





	1. Chapter 1

“What are we doing here, Gilrin?”

The she-elf, dressed in one of “Alcove's Secrets” recent models - Lady Anairë's latest collection - watched her companion frown.

The other, dressed in the purest mountain style - as the snobs used to call those who preferred simple and practical clothing complemented with high boots and sports caps - ignored her friend's question, sticking her nose to the stained glass window of the store.

“Gilrin?” repeated the other.

"Shut up, Nimloth," the brunette ordered. “You won't let me hear.”

“Hear what, creature? You took me out of bed at five in the morning to bring me to a deserted street, to watch a more deserted window. What are you doing?”

"You'll be stupid, Nimloth," the other one snorted again, rolling her eyes. “Today is Midsummer. At any time, in this window, they will exhibit the latest Formenos Industries model and I will be the first to buy the first copy.”

Nimloth opened her green eyes, with surprise.

“Formenos Industries? Are you going to spend all your credits on an automaton that you won't even know how to use? Why would you do such stupidity?

“Because they are perfect, uncultured creature! And of course I’ll know how to use it: as announced by the Prince's spokesman, the new models have a basic programming that facilitates the understanding of simple orders. They are capable of executing commands as long as they are given concisely and consistently. And they can even replace a pet.”

“That is, it will be like having a dog; but elf-size and with circuits instead of hairs.”

Gilrin bit her tongue, counting to a hundred in her mind.

“Sometimes I wonder how it was possible for a… tare like you to finish the Academy.”

“Do you still remember the Academy?” the other was baffled. “How much has passed? A thousand years?”

“That's what I mean”, Gilrin grumbled; but before she could add anything else, the polarized glass door at the bottom of the window ran and an employee stepped out, pushing an object covered with a silver cloth.

Gilrin watched in a trance as the man in gray clothes placed his load and bent down to carefully lift the cloth. Before the she-elf's eyes, a pair of dark boots, adorned with golden buckles, emerged first. They were followed by firm, athletic calves, thick thighs covered with synthetic leather, narrow hips, a broad torso, broad shoulders and a face that would have caused a heart attack to less strong females. A thick black hair was collected in a curly ponytail that rested on one shoulder, camouflaging with the black clothes. The model was exquisite, although a bit rough for elven beauty patterns. The only thing that spoiled the illusion that he was a real elf was the lack of expression in his green eyes, bordered by dark and abundant eyelashes.

Gilrin let out a sigh and moved a hand to his pocket.

“O-K. I retract”, said Nimloth at that moment behind her. “It is not at all like a dog. And I want one of those too.”

…………………………………

The woman entered into the elevator and marked the 33rd floor. As it climbed, she looked away at the panoramic view offered by the glass and aluminum walls of the elevator. Below her, Tirion walked away, wrapped in the sounds of the night. The lights of the clubs and restaurants colored the night of the most cosmopolitan of the Elven cities.

The elevator stopped with a musical jingle and the woman went out into the hall. Before heading to the only office he knew occupied, she looked at the elevator door and adjusted the red curls that escaped the high bun. The pants and jacket suit accentuated her voluptuous figure, reminding her that she had nothing to envy her friend Anairë, considered the most beautiful woman in Tirion. After the queen, of course.

With a smile dancing on her lips painted dark red, she finally began to walk.

When she did not receive an answer after knocking on the door, she opened by her own hand and entered, finding Fëanor just where she expected: behind the desk and with three three-dimensional models deployed in front of him.

“Moryo was a success”, she reported without bothering to say hello while she went to the table and served two drinks (whiskey for Fëanor and brandy for her). “The first shipment sold out before noon. Our factories will be assembling more for three days.”

Fëanor showed no reaction to the good news, even when the woman circled the desk and leaned over his shoulder to observe the blue graphics and drawings that moved in the air at a movement of the male fingers.

For a few seconds, the she-elf followed the changes Fëanor made to the models, causing the graphics to vary. Finally, one after another, the graphics changed from blue to red, which started a snort of impatience from the elf.

Fëanor jumped to his feet, forcing her partner to retreat in a hurry so as not to spill the drinks, and with a swipe, he erased the graphics and models at the same time. He moved away to the window that allowed to see the entire northern area of Tirion and beyond, the crystal and gold needle of Taniquetil. After a few minutes, Fëanor turned to face the woman.

"Sorry, Nerdanel," he apologized with a grimace of annoyance. “What were you saying?”

“I said that today everything went perfect. With each new model, success rates increase and sales grow. At this time, there is no elf in Aman who does not own one of our automatons.” She stopped to take a sip from her glass and added with a pout. “Or not dream of having it.”

"One of our automatons," repeated Fëanor between his teeth and grabbing the glass of whiskey, he emptied it with a drink. “An automaton.”

Nerdanel watched him sideways as she drank slowly.

“Are you still working on that project?” ventured after a few seconds.

He did not answer. In silence, he looked at the desk now clean and flat.

“ It's late”, he finally announced. “Your parents must wait for you hours ago.”

Nerdanel could not contain the gesture of disappointment at his words.

“I thought that today we could -I don't know -have dinner together, talk a little more. About something other than work”, she said with a significant gesture.

Fëanor had already headed to the hanger to take his coat.

“Sorry”, he apologized negligently. “I already have a commitment tonight. Close the door when you leave”, he asked as he headed for the exit.

…………………………………..

Fëanor descended from the elegant vehicle before it stopped its sliding on the magnetic tape on which it moved. With a wave of his hand, he activated the sensors at the entrance and already at the door, he bowed almost impatiently to the retina scanner.

"Welcome, Your Highness," the slightly robotic voice greeted, with a slight Sindarin accent.

"Good evening, Erestor," Fëanor greeted mechanically, stripping off his coat and hat to leave them just behind the door.

“There are two messages from your father, the High King,” reported ‘Erestor’ as the elf entered the mansion and headed for the red marble-clad staircase. “He will be waiting for you for dinner tomorrow and His Majesty expects Lady Nerdanel to accompany you. The Queen also sent her greetings and requested the presence of Lady Nerdanel.”

“Send a voice message to Nerdanel”, Fëanor ordered, without stopping at any time. “Tell her we'll meet in front of Mindon Eldalieva at 8:00 p.m. And compile the analysis data I did this afternoon, review the variations, possible deviations and prepare a report for early tomorrow. Don't give me calls even from my father.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Fëanor had reached the top of the stairs and took the hall on the left. He arrived at the last room and only then took a second to calm his anxious breathing.

He closed the door behind him and turned on his heels. Without getting distracted in any detail of the luxuriously furnished room, the gray eyes of the prince of the Noldor went directly to the silhouette by the window.

He approached slowly, delighting even from afar in every exquisite detail - the long raven-like hair, touched here and there by blue highlights that enriched his blackness; the elegance of the profile turned towards the glass; the delicate curve of the pointed ear, adorned by a sapphire earring set in silver filigree; the long eyelashes that failed to hide the brightness of the turquoise eyes; the generosity of the slightly heavy lower lip; the alabaster whiteness of the cheeks, the neck that the dark silk shirt left bare, the hand that rested on the windowsill ...

Fëanor arrived before the inhabitant of the bedroom and taking the beautiful head in his hands, tenderly, turned it in front of him. For a few seconds, he sank his fingers into long hair, enjoying the soft, silky texture, while staring at the luminous, fixed, crystal eyes.

"I'm home, my love," he said in a low voice, full of emotion, while leaning over to cover the mouth shut with his.

Slowly, patiently, he licked full lips, wrapped them with his own and drew them with his teeth, lingering at the corners of his mouth, pushing with his tongue until the other's jaw gave way and he could slide it inside, savoring between drowned groans the synthetic taste of the other still tongue.

When he backed away, Fëanor was panting with eyes veiled with desire. Leaning his forehead on the other's, he muttered again:

“One day ... one day I will get you to answer my kisses, Fingolfin; it is a promise.”

And standing up, he took it in his arms. The doll's joints creaked slightly before his body was inert in the prince's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, have you seen those beautiful dolls -ball-jointed dolls or bjd's? Well, I am totally, completely, absolutely in love with them.
> 
> As for 'Erestor', I had this image in my mind of Tony Stark saying 'Jarvis this, Jarvis, that'. I think Fëanor and Tony Stark have a lot in common (self-sufficient and cocky geniuses perhaps?)
> 
> In next chapters we will see the Fëanorion and yes, Moryo - the automaton that the girls want to buy - is Caranthir.
> 
> Since in this story, Fingolfin is not Fëanor's brother - rather he is like his son, isn't he? - I did not put 'Incest' between the tags; but I think you should keep it in mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Fëanor was the last of the elves born in Aman. In fact, Fëanor, son of Finwë Noléme and Míriel Þerindë, was the last of the born elves. And nothing more.

Two hundred and twenty six years with two months and seventeen days had passed since no baby was born among the elves. At least in Aman. And since Aman was what was considered ‘civilized world’, the records confirmed the Crown Prince of the Noldor as the last born elf.

The elven was never a prolific race. It was common that many unions did not bear fruit and those that did, did not exceed the two offspring at best. When Fëanor was born, the marriage between his parents lasted fifty years and it was almost thirty years since another child was born in the Divine Lands.

The birth of the prince was not entirely successful. Míriel, exhausted her forces during pregnancy and difficult childbirth, was held in the Healing Gardens, in the care of Estë's maiar. After a few years, the Valar approved for Finwë be considered separated from his first wife and get new nuptials. The chosen one was Indis, niece of Supreme King Ingwë. Many saw in this union a political move, which sought to unite the two Clans rather than provide an opportunity for joy to Finwë. However - and despite what many might think - the union was happy. But not fertile.

Feanor, by then in Eldarin's second childhood, waited anxiously for the announcement that his father's new wife was pregnant. Indis was young, vital, beautiful: the magic of life burned in her blue eyes and brown skin. Little Fëanor was distracted by imagining if his brother would have the queen's golden curls or the king's gray eyes. Finally, when Fëanor entered his early adolescence, Finwë promised him a gift on his anniversary.

Many hours after the end of the party and the banquet, Fëanor was still awake in his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with elbows on his knees and hands cupping his face, the boy looked at the figure standing before him, supported by a transparent glass support against his back. It was only a few centimeters shorter than the teenager and his clothes were a more delicate version of the ones he himself wore at the celebration, but in blue and silver instead of the red and gold that Fëanor preferred. The blackest hair descended to the middle back, picked up by a white gold headband: Fëanor had found that each strand was soft and silky, a perfect copy of an elf's hair. On the pearly face, with high cheekbones and slightly sharp features, the almond eyes offered a sense of reality, intelligence, flashing attractive as turquoise.

It was a doll, Finwë had explained to his son. He was not alive and never would be; but some Noldor began to work in virtual programs that allowed these dolls to carry out simple tasks and to establish a basic communication with their owners. One day, ‘Nolofinwë’ could answer you. And it would be like having a brother.

Fëanor left the bed, remembering his father's words and reached the doll. Slowly, he put his arms around it and resting his head on it stiff shoulder, he muttered:

“Welcome home, Fingolfin.”

……………………………….

The boom of the dolls with ball-joints began after the Crown Prince of the Noldor was accompanied everywhere by his new toy. Whether it was in the Palco Real, in the stands during the Floral Games, on the couch in Taniquetil, the beautiful doll sat next to Prince Fëanor, who held its hand as if it were a little brother who could get lost without his guidance.

When more and more nobles began to give dolls of both genders and wearing the most exotic attire, the Valar - absolute rulers of Aman - intervened. A code was established for the creation and use of dolls. However realistic they were, they would never be elves and therefore could not be named the same as elves: they would be assigned serial names, always in the old language of the Noldor and would never bear a familiar name. Likewise, they would no longer be treated as living beings: they were objects and would remain in stores or houses, as mere ornaments or toys.

Fëanor wanted to protest when his father forbade him to take Fingolfin to the next party. He protested with all the force of his youthful rage. Finwë was adamant, regretting having given him a toy that obsessed him and threatening to get rid of Nolvo - as now he would have to call the doll. Fëanor, horrified by the possibility that Fingolfin was taken from him, agreed to leave him in his quarters, from which the doll did not come out again.

In the outside world, the fascination with dolls continued. Also, each new model went out of fashion quickly. The beautiful ladies dressed in voluminous lace suits, the warriors with chain mail, the archers of hats adorned with feathers, the priestesses of painted faces, the explorers of tattooed bodies ... each model caused a furor to then sleep forgotten in glass urns, the best of times; in dusty attics, the most. Meanwhile, in the Crown Prince's quarters, Fingolfin was not forgotten.

Fëanor possessed a natural intelligence that rivaled the Valar and to this he added the extensive studies he carried out. He went to Mahtan, the best artisan among the Noldor, and with him he learned to create and repair porcelain and silicone dolls. In the solitude of his bedroom, Fëanor dedicated long hours to his only friend, his brother and, far from the eyes of the world, Fingolfin grew up with him.

…………………………………………

Fëanor Finwion was the owner of Formenos Industries, from whose workshops the new models that fascinated the world went on sale. They were no longer simple static dolls: Fëanor and Nerdanel, Mahtan's daughter, had achieved what others only dreamed of - providing their dolls with software that allowed them to perform basic actions and obey simple commands, included in their programming.

But Fëanor aspired to more. Fëanor dreamed of the day when an automaton was able to communicate, make decisions, understand ... That day, Fëanor could fulfill the promise he had made to Fingolfin when he had to confine him in his chambers.


	3. Chapter 3

Fëanor entered the mansion with long strides.

“Welcome, Your Highness.”

This time, the prince ignored Erestor's voice. Abruptly, he tugged at the front of the purple robe, popping the gold and ruby brooches. He struggled with the garment until it was open, allowing him to swell his chest with a powerful inspiration that turned into a rabid rattle. He glanced at the stairs, then turning his eyes to the left, as if from the lobby he could see through the walls, to the room where Fingolfin was always at the window, always motionless, always waiting.

Cursing through his teeth, he went to the studio in the lower part, where he received his colleagues on the few occasions when they met in the mansion to talk about still impossible projects. Despite being alone in the mansion, he closed the door to isolate himself from the world and poured a glass of brandy. He emptied the drink from a gulp and refilled the glass. Only when the third drink was served, Fëanor finally dropped into the upholstered armchair in front of the bureau and held the glass between his intertwined fingers, contemplating the void.

………………………………….

_“It's time for you to make a decision, dear.” _

_Feanor half turned to look at his father. Finwë was smiling at him with that mixture of love and pity that the prince had learned to recognize too early in his life. _

_““A decision?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. _

_““Almost a hundred years have passed and it is time for you to do something about it. _

_“Father, I don't understand what ... _

_“I’m talking about Nerdanel Mahtaniel, of course”, the king laughed. “One hundred years is a long time. Even for a female as patient as her.” _

_Fëanor frowned, still not understanding._

_“You know?” Finwë continued talking. “When you two presented that automaton together - the first one -what's its name? ... the redhead like her ...” _

_“Nelyo”, Fëanor replied automatically. _

_“ That one. Well, when you presented it, we all thought that -the truth, Mahtan and I thought it was the way you were announcing your commitment, finally! But the years accumulate and you -Do not you think you have waited enough? Too much, I would say.” _

_Finally Fëanor understood the paternal chatter. A slow smile parted his sensual lips. _

_“Father, I think you got confused. Nerdanel and I don't ... _

_“Oh, little one, of course I understand that times change and many couples live together today without a ceremony between them; but you must remember that you are my son, the son of the High King, and even if you don't like it, there are rules to follow, - traditions that you are expected to honor. It is time for you and Nerdanel to formalize your relationship. We could celebrate an intimate party if you prefer. Although it will be difficult for the prince's wedding to go unnoticed ... _  
_"Father, you don't understand me," he interrupted impatiently. “Nerdanel and I are not a couple. We don’t have a relationship. We are not going to get married.” _

_Finwë watched him with surprise. When Fëanor stopped, taking a breath to calm down, the king took a few minutes before commenting, unsure: _

_“Sorry. I think I've misunderstood -we've all misunderstood the relationship between you. I guess if it's not Nerdanel, there is someone who ...” _

_"No," Fëanor firmly denied, containing the urge to shout that yes, that there was someone, that there was always someone. “No one. I am not interested in a relationship with any female. Or male.” _

_Again the High King of the Noldor was silent. His gray eyes roamed the tables around which the usual guests at royal banquets gathered. The king's gaze stopped on Indis, causing Fëanor to look at her too. For a moment, Fëanor mentally compared the turquoise blue of Fingolfin's crystal eyes with that of the queen's eyes. _

_"It’s enough, Fëanor," Finwë suddenly declared, in a severe hiss. “During all these years I have allowed you to dedicate every second of your life to playing with dolls and software; but it is time for you to assume your position as Crown Prince. It is time that you are responsible. Take a wife ... a husband ... I don't care; but the rumors must end now.” _

_“Rumors?” Fëanor inquired in a strangled voice. _

_Finwë faced him with a fierce gleam in his eyes. _

_“Do you think I'm stupid, son? I know you have ignored the laws of the Valar. I know you keep that doll in your rooms and that you treat it as if it were a living creature. I wanted to think, seeing you work so hard to give understanding to that artifacts, that you want our people to feel again the delights of parenthood; but there are those who see your efforts differently ... otherwise less altruistic, and the truth, seeing how you refuse to maintain a normal relationship, as you even ignore the needs of the flesh ... I begin to worry.” _

_Fëanor stepped back, fleeing from the burning gaze of his father. _

_“Fëanor ...” _

_“I did what you told me”, he defended himself violently. “I hid him in my rooms and did not show him again to the world. You can't demand that I get rid of Fin ...” _

_“It. Is. A. Doll.” The king growled through clenched teeth. “I will not require you to throw it away. I did it myself, Fëanor. With these hands I made it for you. Because of the brother we couldn't give you. Indis and I put a lot into its creation ... but he is not an elf. And if someone were to suspect that you ... that you practice some ... perversion with that toy ... By Eru, my son!” _

_"I'm going to make him like us, father," the prince replied passionately. “I'm going to make him one of ...” _

_“Get married. Marry Nerdanel, please,” the king sighed, in a weary tone. “Make all those suspicions go away from you and I ... I'll silence the rumors. And you can continue working on that dream. But marry ...” _

_“I don't love Nerdanel!” Fëanor almost groaned. _

_“Then with Anairë. She is also a beautiful female and has a lot of talent. Maybe she’d understand your dreams better. Or choose a husband!” he proposed, on the edge of despair. “Rúmil ... he ... Just do what I ask.” _

_Fëanor turned his face to see Nerdanel chatting with the queen. Both laughed at something Rúmil said and the prince felt his chest tighten. _

_“Give me a month”, he asked, defeated. “Just one more month to try again. Later, I will announce my commitment to Nerdanel. And you won't have to worry about more rumors.” _

_“Thank you…”_

_“But ... father?” He held him, taking a hand. “I will keep Fingolfin. Whether I can give him life or not.” _

_“My son”, Finwë sighed, “you can keep your toy until the end of Arda. You can never give it life. That is something that is only reserved for Eru Ilúvatar.” _

…………………………………….

Fëanor squeezed the glass so hard that the crystal cracked, exploding in his hands. With a hiss of impatience, he stood up, keeping his hands up to keep blood from dripping on the carpet.

While washing the wounds in the bathroom and healing them, the elf thought it was not a big problem to have to marry Nerdanel. She was a good friend and efficient colleague, and had long since proven that they were compatible in sex; but Fëanor could not accept the idea of abandoning Fingolfin, of leaving his dreams behind. Could not. And he would not. He had a month to get what he didn't achieve in a hundred years. And he would do anything to get it.


	4. Chapter 4

Rumors traveled fast. On the third day of having talked with his father, Fëanor was able to verify that at least half of his employees expected the wedding to be held before New Year’s Eve. Unfortunately, the press media felt the same way. Fëanor had no doubts about his father being the source of the rumors: Finwë was eager to silence the murmuring about Fëanor's fondness for his creations. For heavens’ sake! Everyone knew that most of the people who acquired the automatons did so because they felt "attracted" to them. Fëanor had not had in mind to develop a sex toys industry when he designed the first model - Nelyo the High -; but it was clear that many people saw his products as perfect substitutes for non-existent relationships. For him, each new model had been an effective way to test an improvement that he would then apply in Fingolfin: the texture of the skin, the silkiness of the hair, the effectiveness of the joints, the mechanisms to facilitate facial expressions (the latter ready to launch the market with the next model, Curvo the Craftsman)…

On the other hand, Fëanor did not feel ‘fondness for his creations’. He only had feelings for Fingolfin - feelings that he had not been able to define after more than a hundred years. Fingolfin was the sum of all his efforts, of years of work, of surpassing his colleagues and himself. Fëanor had no doubt that if he was shown to the world, Fingolfin would never go out of style. But he also knew that there would only be one Fingolfin in the world – _his Fingolfin. _

A week had elapsed from the deadline requested by the prince and he was desperate to see that despite the few hours of rest granted, he had failed to advance his purpose. He even stopped going to the offices to concentrate on working at home, where he was not interrupted and could require the analytical skills of ‘Erestor ’to make his work viable. On one or two occasions, Nerdanel went to visit him; but when the female perceived the little attention he paid her, she said goodbye, saying:

“I hope with all my heart that you succeed”. A note of bitterness vibrated in her voice. “Only then will you begin to have a life of your own.”

Fëanor did not listen to her, absorbed in typing furiously the algorithms on the virtual keyboard displayed in front of him.

On the eighth day, Fëanor managed to develop a complete program and ordered ‘Erestor’ to bring one of the new prototypes to test.

With the precision of a jeweler, he extracted from the glass urn - emerged from a panel in the living room wall - the head with delicate features. This prototype was one of the ones he preferred to use. Its features were quite similar to Fingolfin's - as much as they could be between father and son. The main difference was that the beautiful blue-eyed head was totally bald. 

Fëanor manipulated the model to open a tiny access at the base of the skull and introduced the bright green chip.

The prototype's eyes lit up and the eyelids moved slowly until they closed and then rose again.

Fëanor waited with his heart in his mouth. The prototype blinked again, this time faster. The gesture was repeated several times before the automaton's pupils deviated slightly, focusing on the engineer.

The mouth of pink lips opened. Long minutes passed before the lips moved, modulating inaudible words.

“He ... llo”, finally emerged the mechanical voice, incongruous with the exquisite lips that let it out.

“Hi,” sighed Feanor. “What is your name?”

The automaton did not flinch. Feanor licked his lips.

“Walk towards me”, he ordered, aware that the head could not carry out the command.

The automaton did not react and Fëanor buried his head in his hands, defeated. Despite the changes he made in the programming, the automaton was unable to realize the impossibility of fulfilling the order.

“Turn off the program”, the prince ordered, fatigued, while standing up.

………………………………..

Standing at the window, Fëanor held the bottle of liquor in one hand, taking long drinks. His attention was fixed on the view outside the mansion: Tirion was a vision at night, as if the lights of the sky had descended between the buildings. Actually, there were streets of the city so bright that it seemed that the sun never set on them.

When Fëanor was still a child, his father had told him that long ago, when the Eldar arrived at Valinor, there was no darkness there. A dome covered the entire Blessed Lands, protecting it from darkness and pollution prevailing in the outside world. Under the dome, the light of the Trees always reigned. When Finwë spoke of the Trees, his eyes shone with a fascination that Fëanor had only seen in those who worshiped the Valar as gods. Fëanor knew, like all elves, the story of how the Trees were destroyed by Melkor, a former member of the Aratar, who rebelled against his siblings to take over the world and rule it as a tyrant. Melkor had been imprisoned in the Timeless Halls for many centuries and the date of his release was approaching, according to news from Taniquetil. The rebel Vala had repented of his crime; but the light of the Trees was lost forever.

Fëanor was always curious about those Trees that provided Valinor with light and life. No text or file explained the nature of the Trees, or if they existed similar in another place in the world. Fëanor always wondered what the life of the elves would have been like if Melkor hadn't destroyed the Trees.

The prince put the bottle to his lips and drank until it was empty. Only then did he turn towards the bed and start walking.

He stopped at the foot of the bed and dropped the silk robe to the floor, being completely naked. The artificial lights that pierced the glass of the windows illuminated his swarthy, firm body, powerful as steel and lava. His silver eyes were lost in the whiteness that lay between the crimson sheets: in the low nightlight, Fingolfin could pass as a noldo like him. In the semi-light, the synthetic material that covered ivory joints and elastic tendons offered the false illusion of skin warmth. Hair spilled on the mattress like a tide of black, liquid silk.

When Fëanor knelt on the bed, between the feet of the automaton, his own hair fell to a side like a curtain that would isolate him from the real world. He leaned down until his lips touched the instep of one foot: the coldness did not cause repulsion on his burning lips. He traced the motionless legs with cautious fingers, ascending toward the narrow hips.

Every detail in Fingolfin had been designed for perfection. Fëanor had updated him following logical patterns of growth and evolution ... and in the process, he had become fascinated with the image that matured in his hands, on his plans, in his bedroom.

He explored the smooth belly with the tip of his nose, descending to the groin, moving along the exact copy of the virile sex he created for him. He slowly licked the inert appendix, imagining that it swelled with his attention, that it filled his mouth with furious beats of delight, that it flooded his body with swings of painful ecstasy. He moved a hand down his own abdomen until he caught his cock between his fingers, too strongly.

Fingolfin caused this madness in him. No matter how many years passed, Fëanor would always remember that the first time he took pleasure, he did it thinking of Fingolfin, fantasizing that it was his lips that kissed him, that a hoarse voice emerged from the cold lips, shouting his name. No lover had matched the excitement that the precious doll unleashed; no lover would replace his perfect love ever.

He ascended with desperate kisses down the soft torso, masturbating with increasing momentum. Pleasure tensed his body, pulling moans from his throat. He pressed himself against the rigid body, ramming his hips uncontrollably, rubbing his sex between the heat that his own flesh transmitted to the synthetic skin. With two fingers, he opened the automaton's mouth and buried his tongue in it, screaming when the climax shook him like an earthquake.

For a few moments, he kept moving more calmly, enjoying the smoothness between them. He pulled away, still panting, to watch Fingolfin's face veiled with passion. A trace of moisture remained on the parted lips and the hair was entangled in the fingers of Fëanor, who raised his hand to caress the frozen, distant features.

Like the rattle of a dying animal, a sob shook the prince, who dropped his head on the automaton's shoulder. Fëanor's cries tore the scented-of-sex silence of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to apologize because I'm a horror writing science fiction, especially when it comes to the scientific part - I'm more about laser beams and spacecraft chases (Star Wars). Pleeeease, be patient with my scientific and robotic knowledge (I barely know how to understand myself with my laptop :(


	5. Chapter 5

The deadline granted by the High King did not include the release of attending social commitments. The anniversary of Master Rúmil was more than enough reason for a celebration being hold in the royal palace, with the obligatory assistance of each Noldorin celebrity.

Fëanor had presented his parents’ old friend with a set of jewels and a first edition - on scrolls - of Elemmirë's poems. Now, while the rest of the guests danced, played and drank, the Crown Prince was sitting on a garden bench, calculating how much longer he must be there for his father not to frown. He needed to go back to work. Although he had not made progress, he could not think of anything else than achieving his goal, giving life to Fingolfin, showing his father how wrong he was ... He could not even think about the possibility of having to marry, that Nerdanel could claim the time that he dedicated to Fingolfin, that she should demand that he abandon him.

“Here you are.”

Fëanor looked up from his glass to contemplate the female. Nerdanel leaned back on the back of the seat, approaching him and allowing him to have a deep view of the generous bust that the deep neckline allowed to see.

“I've been looking for you for a while now. Are you not going to invite me to dance?”

“I'm exhausted”, Fëanor apologized, remembering that a few months ago dancing with his colleague and friend would have been a distraction he would appreciate.

"Fëanor," she sighed, shaking her head and moved to sit beside him. “People are starting to talk, you know? I, who have known you for years, know how you are and what you usually do… to abstract yourself from the world when you have a project in mind; but this is already being too obvious. The same magazines that echoed our commitment, today doubt that such a thing is true ...”

"We're not engaged, Nerdanel," he interrupted impatiently. He sensed how she contracted her mouth and hurriedly added: “Not yet, at least. And my father shouldn't have let the press know about our ... our conversation.”

“Your deal, you mean”, said the woman, shaking her head with determination; but Fëanor had the feeling that she expected him to correct her. As it did not happen, Nerdanel continued speaking: “Your father spoke with me. You know he always liked me. The fact is that I have been investigating a little and ...”she hesitated, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I think you should check the Music files.”

“Do you feel like I'm losing my straight path, Nerdanel?” Fëanor scoffed at hearing her mention the most dogmatic of the Valar texts.

"N-no," she denied, shaking her head vigorously. “I don't mean -I suggest you go to the Memory Halls and see -Curunír can help you.”

"Help me," he frowned. “Help me to what?”

“He is –he’s been in the Memory Halls for a long time and he knows -Well, maybe - I think that if you look in the ancient texts, referring to the time of the Trees, you could find a clue that will help you to orient yourself. I think it's worth a try.”

To Fëanor's surprise, Nerdanel did not wait for his response before standing up and returning to the interior of the palace.

At first, Fëanor did not pay much attention to the advice of his alleged wife. He had read the Music archives at an early age and always considered the text a ridiculous compilation of legends invented by ignorant and curious people. Although Fëanor was far from denying the existence of Eru Ilúvatar, the idea that the universe was created by ‘music’ was something that did not fit in his logical conception of the world. However, as the days continued to accumulate and the hours of rest were reduced to hectic moments clinging to Fingolfin's cold body - while the certainty of losing him stuck deeper and deeper into his soul - Fëanor decided to try his luck.

……………………………………..

Fëanor descended from the tram and looked at the gray facade of the building. Before him stood the double-leaf door with carved figures, flanked by two colossal statues that joined their hands on the lintel to hold a lamp always on. Before the prince of the Noldor had occasion to grab the huge knocker with the shape of a beast head, one of the leaves withdrew without noise, allowing him to pass.

“Welcome, Spirit of Fire. How can these humble ones serve thee?”

Fëanor turned halfway to contemplate the figure covered by a dark gray habit, whose hood left only pale lips in sight.

“ I would like to consult the Music archives”, the elf replied, frowning slightly.

The maia bowed and spun around to slide through the half-light hallway. The prince followed them, too aware of the heel of his boots on the dark tiles.

The Halls of Memory were under the rule of Vairë the Weaver; but everyone knew that it was actually Mandos, her partner and one of the Aratar, who ran the place. Everything there recalled the sinister image of the Souls’ Keeper and many of the Maiar who were in the huge library were really ** his** servers.

“Can I ask for -Curunír’s guide?” Fëanor ventured when they arrived at the room where the texts requested by him were.

The maia who guided him stopped for a second and then nodded, indicating with a gesture to wait.

Fëanor entertained himself by looking at the tapestries that hung on the walls. One of them occupied the entire wall and represented the moment when Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë appeared before the Valar, being fascinated by their beauty and power. The faces of the three ambassadors - and later leaders of the Great Journey - were illuminated by the light of the Trees and in their eyes shone an idolatry that Fëanor could not conceive.

“I was told that thou want my help, Prince Fëanor.”

Fëanor turned to face the maia. For a moment, he was surprised to recognize him as one of Aulë’s maiar; but immediately he recomposed himself and without giving more importance to the matter, he commented:

“I am in the middle of an investigation and I would like to consult some texts of the Years of the Trees ...”

“I know not how the chronicles can help thee to design a program that allows thy models to have understanding”, Curunír said with obvious irony.

“And I wonder how you can know what I'm looking for, Maia Curunír. In addition, I do not come to consult the chronicles written by my contemporaries. I want to consult documents written when the Trees lived.”

"Lived," Curunir repeated, varying his expression. “Without a doubt, that is a way of saying it. Follow me, Son of Finwë.”

A while later, the maia left Feanor alone in a cubicle lit by two old lamps, fueled by oil. On top of the table, the maia had accumulated a group of rolls and books bound in leather and tree bark.

“I hope thee to find what thou art looking for, Spirit of Fire”, he said before leaving.

Fëanor wondered mentally why he had yielded to Nerdanel's suggestion.

Because he was desperate -that was evident- he accepted while he took a seat and took the first scroll.

Almost ten hours later, Fëanor cursed the hope he had put into this useless search. Every word in those documents was the expression of the most absolute obscurantism, of the obcecation of creatures stunned by events they could not explain.

With a swipe, he closed the book he consulted at that time - and repeated the same thing he read in the previous twenty - and directed a furious glance at the wooden door, slightly ajar. The image of Maia Curunír came to his mind and again he was intrigued by the fact that he had recognized him as one of Aulë's maiar - which was more than evident from his muscular body, his hair from the tone of fire and, of course, the badge of a hammer in the middle of a flame on his left shoulder. It was unusual to find a maia outside the area to which they was intended at the time of their ... emergence. However, at that moment, Fëanor only thought that perhaps he had misunderstood Nerdanel's advice: perhaps it was with Curunír who he should talk to and not consult the books he provided.

He stood up, ready to go looking for the Valar's server. As he circled the table, he tripped over a roll that stood out from the others and grabbed it, noticing that he had not seen it before. Curious, he unrolled it; but the disappointment cooled his chest to meet another version of the first passages of Music.

“Of the Maiar”, he read between his teeth, letting his eyes run along the lines drawn up in a rather elaborate style, even for the Vanyar.

It was not the first time he met a list of the Valar's servants - generally, a kind of census or database in which only the name and the Vala they were serving were consigned. In this case, Fëanor saw that it was also indicated what the specific function of each maia was, as well as the other activities that could be carried out outside the objective for which they were designed...

Fëanor's mind went blank for a few seconds. His eyes kept going through the list of names and attributes without understanding.

Designed. Designed. DESIGNED

He read again and then understood: it was not an elaborate style, the document was a damn inventory. Of the Maiar. Of the automatons created by the Valar to serve them in a world in which they were the only inhabitants capable of reasoning. Until the elves arrived, of course. The Maiar had been created by the Valar. And they had life! Intelligence! Some were even able to show emotions.

Frantically, Fëanor stirred the documents until he found other scrolls similar to the one he was holding. He found reports of the progress of the initial experiments, reports of how the project progressed ... all in a language too poetic and grandiloquent for someone to take it for more than just another ancient song. For a moment, he stopped to think who might have been interested in keeping these documents, writing them with the Elvish alphabet even when they were written in Valarin. He remembered when the Valar decreed that dolls would never be living beings and also that someone had mentioned that Melkor had tried to pervert Eru's work. Had Melkor wanted to create new life from the Maiar models? But the Maiar were not like the elves: even with their abilities and their intelligence, they were not able to procreate. Did Melkor want to go beyond that limit? Did he, Fëanor Finwion, not want to go beyond that limit?

For a second, he hesitated. Perhaps the Valar would not welcome him to discover their secrets. But such secrets could not be when the documents were within the reach of anyone - anyone who read Valarin and knew how to understand what was written there.

He pressed the scrolls against his chest and returned to the table, ready not to leave the room until he revealed the secret of the Maiar.


	6. Chapter 6

“The Trees! The fucking. Damn. Trees, Fingolfin!”

Fëanor burst into the bedroom, screaming elated.

By the window, in his high-backed chair, Fingolfin remained motionless.

Fëanor went to the table and poured himself a glass of wine, which he emptied at once. He took a second drink and approached the automaton. Grabbing him by the chin, he kissed him passionately, still smiling.

"The Trees, my love," he whispered against cold lips. “The Trees are the secret. They generated the energy needed to feed the cores of the automatons. Each maia was equipped with a core created from the Trees, which combined with its programming, allowed them to function with empathy, copying behavior patterns and learning to act on them. They imitated emotions”, he concluded with a radiant smile and kissed the doll again before stepping away. 

“With time, those ... ‘copies’ of emotions were integrated into their programming and- that's it! Artificial Intelligence. No! Artificial. Emotional. Intelligence.”

He turned around the bedroom, dancing with open arms. Suddenly, he stopped and turned in front of Fingolfin, whose head had tilted over one shoulder and seemed to observe him with his attentive turquoise eyes.

“Although it wasn't just that. It wasn't just Namo's ability as an engineer and Aulë's as a designer -and Melkor's as a programmer, it seems. The Trees were made of some special material, something that allowed the fusion of the cores with the bodies of the automatons”, he said thoughtfully. “Something that served as a connection between automatons and ... Music. You know? Mahtan always said that Aulë taught him that the only way to make a work of art is to put the soul in it.”

He approached Fingolfin and knelt before him, taking one of the white hands in his. 

“Maybe that's what I should do: _put my soul in you_.”

He stared at the blue eyes, fixedly. At that moment, the doll lost its balance and fell forward, with its forehead resting on Fëanor's, who smiled blissfully before kissing the cold mouth.

………………………………

How many messages Finwë sent to his son were left unanswered. Also the two that Queen Indis sent. Similarly, Nerdanel was treated by an immutable ‘Erestor’, who only informed her that His Highness was busy and did not receive visitors.

For two weeks, Fëanor did not leave his mansion. Until then, he had only created programs to answer orders and give answers; but after reading the reports from the library, he understood that he was wrong. He needed to "design" Fingolfin’s character.

At first, it was based on himself; but upon reviewing the programming, he realized that what he had done was to think about how he would react to each order, to each question. Fingolfin needed to learn, integrate the experiences to its codification and act accordingly. While rewriting each code, he began to consider how Indis would act in such or more which situation: after all, she had also participated in the initial creation of Fingolfin.

There were still gaps to fill in his investigation and Fëanor knew it. It was evident that the Trees were more than just sources of energy. Also, that ‘connection with the Music of the world’ still slipped away. Although curious by nature, Fëanor had never been especially religious and out of the incomplete ecstasy caused by sex with Fingolfin, he knew no other spiritual delight. Rúmil had once told him that Music sang loudly in him; but he did not pay much attention to the words of his teacher and lover. Now, however, the prince would have liked to have paid more attention to his spiritual instruction.

What Fëanor did know for sure was that he had to create a nucleus that would provide unlimited energy to his creation. So while working on the software, he also worked on the design of a power source small enough to fit inside the doll and powerful enough to not require recharging.

………………………………..

Fëanor looked at the three pieces aligned on top of the red velvet garment.

At first glance they looked like three gems, too polished and luminous to be more than jewelry ornaments. Only if they were closely inspected could someone see the tiny blue and red veins that betrayed the circuits through which energy circulated. They were made of a unique alloy, created by the prince at this time and contained the power of a small sun inside.

Deep black circles surrounded Fëanor's silver eyes; but his pupils shone euphoric when he contemplated the fruit of his work. They were three identical pieces: three perfect copies of the essence of Fingolfin. Or so he expected.

"Silmarilli," he declared in a hushed whisper. “I'm going to call you ‘silmarilli’. It's a good name, don't you think, Erestor?”

Erestor did not answer, unable to recognize his creator's voice in such a state of irritation.

Fëanor put two of the pieces in the safe and put the other in a padded box, next to the bed, before entering to take a relaxing bath.

Only covered with a robe, he approached where Fingolfin was waiting.

Slowly, he undressed the automaton and carried it in his arms to the bed. Then, he opened his chest - where days ago he designed an imperceptible access - and taking the silmaril with great care, deposited it in the niche. He took his time to connect each connection to the tiny ports and waited while the circuits adjusted, radiating a slight heat. Only when he was sure he had not made any mistakes, he closed the lid and slid his hand down the smooth torso.

He sat on the bed, watching the doll, waiting.   
_Waiting. _

……………………………..

He took a deep breath, feeling the heaviness of sleep on his eyelids. In his mind, he cursed for falling asleep; but then he remembered ...

He remembered the pointless vigil beside Fingolfin's motionless body. He remembered the seconds, the minutes, the hours accumulating in the red numbers of the digital clock ... and the disappointment that every second stuck in his chest like a red-hot knife.

When dawn came he would have to go to the palace, to his father. Today was the month he had asked for and sooner rather than later he would have to publicly announce his marriage to Nerdanel ... because he had failed.

In what stupid fantasy had he believed he could match the Valar? Get what nobody had dreamed before? Giving life to an object, a toy ... _ a thing_?

He moved to stand on his back, roaring with rage and helplessness.

With his hands in his hair, he stared with wide eyes at the figure beside him. Slowly, almost fearful, he lowered his hands and kept looking at the elf.

Naked, with loose hair on one shoulder, Fingolfin was kneeling on the mattress, sitting on his heels and with his hands on his thighs. When Fëanor looked at him, a flash lit his eyes - silver blue, not turquoise - and raising an open hand, he said, in a youthful voice:

“Hi!”


	7. Chapter 7

“What is this? How is it called? Can I touch it? Can I open it? ... Can I bite it? What is it for? Is it alive?”

Fëanor looked up from the digital screen where he wrote a message for his father, frowning, and pronounced a curse between his teeth as he stood up in a hurry.

Despite his many questions, Fingolfin already carried the small battery to his mouth, ready to blow his teeth.

In the five hours since his awakening, Fingolfin had tried to eat a cable, a chip and a porcelain cup; he had bitten the cat, tried to lick the fire and tried to drink water when he saw Fëanor do the same. Fëanor was hypersensitive because of the few hours of rest and the constant challenge it was to keep his newly awakened friend out of trouble.

"No, Fingolfin, no!" repeated the prince for the twentieth time that morning. “You can't put everything you find in your mouth. Batteries contain acid and acid is very, very corrosive.”

The silver-blue eyes of the automaton went from the battery - now in Fëanor's hand - to the face of the elf and vice versa three times. Finally, he bowed until he was very close to the prince and in a whisper, asked:

"What is corrosive? Can you lick it?”

"No," sighed Feanor. “You should never lick anything that is corrosive. Corrosive means that it corrodes, wears, destroys. If the acid touched any part of your body it would be like ... as if the body was burned, do you understand? Do you remember that I showed you what fire does to paper and fabric? Well, something similar would happen to your skin, you understand?” Fingolfin's eyes widened as he listened. “You. Never. Must. Touch. Something corrosive. You understand?”

"No," Fingolfin denied energetically.

Fëanor raised an eyebrow.

“You did not understand?” inquired.

Fingolfin blinked twice, as if processing the question. After a few seconds, he said, slowly:

“I. Never. Must. Touch. Something corrosive. I understood”, he nodded less emphatically.

A smile curved Fëanor's mouth, happy as if he had just witnessed the success of a son. Even with fatigue and the need to start taking steps to make his victory known, the prince was enjoying this day like no other in his life. Fingolfin was alive. _Alive_.

Always smiling, Fëanor reached out a hand and stroked the automaton's face, delineating the high cheekbone, the jaw line, the side of the neck and a black curl resting on top of the white shirt.

Fingolfin smiled, imitating the elf's expression and bowed his head, following the movement of the hand that caressed him.

"Are you happy with me?" He asked, modulating each word carefully.

"A lot, Fingolfin. Don't you notice?”

Fingolfin blinked several times and raised a hand to hold the elf's.

“Smile is usually an expression of joy or satisfaction, of pleasure; but you also smiles to hide disgust or discomfort, when you want to hide what you really think. However, the smile can also be a threat: no animal smiles. Among animals, showing teeth is a sign of aggression.”

Fëanor was somewhat disoriented by the rapid exposure of the automaton: had he included all that information in the programming of the silmarilli?

"So are you happy with me?" the automaton asked again with the expression of a small child.

"Always, precious," Fëanor laughed and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him to hug him tightly.

Fingolfin did not move, resting his chin on the inventor's shoulder.

"Raise your arms and surround me with them," Fëanor ordered quietly.

Fingolfin obeyed, resting his open hands on the elf's back.

Fëanor closed his eyes and buried his face between the neck and shoulder of the automaton, sucking the lavender smell of dark hair.

"You can ... squeeze a little," he suggested.

Again, Fingolfin obeyed silently.

“More.”

This time, the automaton did not move.

Feanor leaned back a little and took him by the chin, made him turn to face him.

"Is something wrong, Fingolfin?"

"I can hurt you. If I squeeze my arms around you, I can hurt you”, Fingolfin explained logically. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

"You won't hurt me, little one," said Fëanor, resting his forehead on his. “I am stronger than you imagine. I am an athlete and a worker: I can endure a little pressure. Hold me tight, Fingolfin. I have waited years for this moment.”

“If that is what you want…”

Finally, Fingolfin moved a little and pressed his arms around Fëanor's shoulders.

Fëanor almost regretted his words a while earlier: despite his delicate appearance, Fingolfin's strength surpassed that of an average elf - that of any elf, actually. However, feeling those palms extended on his shoulders, the force of the arms that pressed on his sides, his chest against his ... those were feelings he had almost given up in recent days. He returned the hug with intensity, entangling a hand in the hair on the nape of the automaton.

A beep forced Fëanor to raise his head, glancing angrily at where the communication bracelet was.

"I have to answer that," he explained when the device began to hum on the table.

Fingolfin stepped back, dropping his arms.

The prince took the bracelet and clicked on a corner of the screen, activating a holographic projection. Finwë appeared before him, still in his underwear, without the ceremonial robe.

"I hope you rested tonight, my son," said the king, with a smile, as his camera aid combed his long hair in braids. “I have one of those tedious Council meetings early today ... in a few minutes, in fact; but I hope to see you for lunch. I invited Mahtan, his wife and Nerdanel. Some of our closest friends will also be present ... Rúmil ... Indis' cousin, Ingwion -do you remember him? He hasn't been to Tirion for years; but he will get married in a few months. I have thought that your weddings can be celebrated at the same time -although Indis told me that I am hurrying”, the king laughed. “Then, Fëanor, I wait for you at noon, without excuses. We will be announcing your commitment.”

The image darkened as a female voice announced that the video message was over.

Fëanor cursed, banging the table. He should have sent that damn message as soon as he discovered that his work would finally work. He could not believe that Finwë had called a lunch to officially announce his commitment to Nerdanel. He had to call his father immediately.

He tried to communicate several times with the king, only obtaining in response that the High King was not available at that time.

He cursed several times, kicking the floor, swatting documents and artifacts off the table.

He was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder and turned on himself to find Fingolfin's gaze.

"You're not happy anymore," said the automaton in a stunned voice.

“No I'm not.”

“Is it for me? Did I do something wrong?”

Fëanor frowned when he noticed that Fingolfin looked down, as if he were worried. Even in his rage, he smiled: Fingolfin was already showing traces of emotions.

"No, my beauty; you would never bother me. It's ... it's because there are people who can't understand how important you are to me.”

"Why don't you explain them?"

"My father doesn't ..." He broke off, thinking. “No, Fingolfin; I will not explain: I will show my father how important you are, how wonderful you are. We are going to find you suitable clothes: you are going to accompany me to that lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with this story.
> 
> Thanks, Kalendeer, because your comment gave the impulse I needed to write again this fic.


	8. Chapter 8

Nerdanel shifted impatiently in the chair and took another sneaky glance at the door to the drawing room. Lunch had been arranged by the king for one o'clock; but another quarter of an hour passed and the main guest did not arrive. The woman forced herself to listen to the conversation between her father and Master Rúmil - and even managed to make some comments - however, almost immediately her mind returned to Fëanor. They hadn't been together for almost a week and Nerdanel didn't know how his project was going. Ever since that ball in which she had the magnificent idea of suggesting that he seek the help of a certain Maia, Nerdanel had not had a real conversation with Fëanor. She didn't even know why she had said that… well, she did: she couldn't bear to see the elf who she loved wasting his wits and time on a project with no future. That student of her father had mentioned something about Curunír and how he made sure he had secrets, that he knew very old information - information that the other Maiar had forgotten - perhaps because he had been close to Mairon, Melkor's most loyal server after the treason and how it was possible that Curunír even knew why there were no babies ...

Babies. Deep inside her, Nerdanel knew that was why Fëanor did it - not because he was obsessed with an old-fashioned doll - but because he hoped to find a way to bring back to the elves the joy of bearing, of raising a child. She yearned for that, too. She was female: motherhood was permeated in her senses like programming in the circuits of automata. At the beginning of her relationship with Fëanor she had been hopeful: she had put her mind and her body in getting the seed of her lover to catch on her belly. But the miracle did not happen: Fëanor was the last miracle of the Eldar.

"So that's why the Valar call the Festival," Rúmil commented, nodding as he tasted the third glass of liquor. Indis shot her husband a warning look. “Melkor's release. Have three ages passed already?”

"Definitely," Finwë confirmed. “I don't think Námo would allow a sentence reduction.”

"No, he didn't," laughed Rúmil. “Manwë maybe ...”

"Oh please, Rúmil," Mahtan interrupted. “Do not start. Three Ages have passed and Melkor has asked for forgiveness. He has repented.”

"I suppose you know that from a good source," the Master of Languages raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I am the leader of the Aulendili, so I have quite good relations with the House of Aulë ...”

"Well, I heard that Námo did not agree very much with the release."

"Rúmil," Indis warned, narrowing her eyes and turning to her husband, added: "You should call Fëanor. Maybe something came up and he can't come ...”

"The Crown Prince has arrived."

The announcement, made over the intercom, made everyone turn to the door.

Fëanor entered with a firm and elegant step. A smile lit up his face and to his father's surprise, he wore a traditional Noldorin tunic with crossed lapels. Also, he had braided his hair in the festive style and even wore jewelry - jewelry! Finwë couldn't remember the last time his son had dressed up like this.

The king raised an eyebrow: he had actually dressed up to announce his engagement. That was a good sign. He sighed contentedly and settled back in the seat. Immediately, he stood up as if touched by a red-hot iron.

Finwë was not the only one to be surprised. Both Mahtan and his wife went still, and Rúmil lowered the glass that he took to his lips.

Fëanor laughed like a child.

"Father, ma'am," he said with a slight bow. “Masters Mahtan and Rúmil ... my lady Hyellë ... Nerdanel ... I present to you Fingolfin.”

The automaton moved slowly toward the prince's outstretched hand. He stopped when he reached him and looked at Fëanor before turning to look at the rest of the audience. Checking that everyone was looking at him, he stepped back to get closer to his creator and quietly said:

“What do you want me to do? Should I… say hello? Or do I just stand still while they watch me?”

"Say hello to them, Fingolfin," Fëanor smiled.

The automaton nodded and took a few steps forward again. Raising an open hand, he said:

“Hello.”

"By Eru's balls," said Rúmil, dropping his glass.

Finwë blinked, coming out of his daze. His gaze traveled to the talking doll and returned to his son.

"Fëanor, what does this mean?" He demanded, with growing irritation. “Why are you bringing one of your toys here? I told you…!”

“Fingolfin is not a toy…”

"Don't call it that! He is not one of us! It’s an object! Nolvo! Its serial code is Nolvo! And you should have got rid of it years ago!”

Fingolfin stepped back again to stand behind Fëanor, who instinctively reached out to protect him. The automaton leaned closer to the prince's ear and whispered:

"Your father is not happy. It's my fault? Did I do something wrong?”

Anger was replaced by puzzlement in Finwë's spirit.

“What is it... saying?” He asked with effort. “What ... what kind of programming is this?”

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Fëanor hissed through clenched teeth. “Fingolfin is different. I did it, father. Last night ... I was successful.”

"No," Finwë denied, shaking his head. “It is impossible. It is a trick you invented to save time. I will not fall into your traps, Fëanor. You can't fool me.”

“Fool you? I designed a special core, like never seen before! I created a personality, a being ... from myself; but also from you and Indis. Look at him, father: it is not a farce. Fingolfin can think, learn ... can identify emotions, feelings ... and he will come to have them.”

“You do not know what you say!” Cried the king. “A doll cannot have feelings! They are not living beings! Only Eru can create creatures capable of ...!”

"The Valar did it! If they did it, I can do it.”

A tense silence followed his statement. Mahtan's wife put a hand to her mouth in horror and Aulë's servant himself stood up, bewildered. Nerdanel imitated his father, more slowly.

"What are you talking about, Fëanor?" It was she who broke the silence.

The crown prince turned in her direction.

"The Maiar. They are not natural creatures. They were designed by the Valar, long before the elves appeared on Arda. They used the light from the Trees as an energy source and from those Trees they created the nuclei that gave them life. The Valar wanted to replicate the process with which Eru created His beings ... and they succeeded. If they could, why couldn't I? Look at him, Nerdanel, ” he pointed out to Fingolfin with pride. “He is perfect. He is the perfect elf. And it's not just his image. In a few hours he has learned enough to live in our world as one of us. And he can learn much more. His capacity is yet to be explored. Look at him, Nerdanel”, he repeated with growing enthusiasm. “And tell me if you can tell him apart from one of us.”

Nerdanel bit the inside of her cheek. It was really impossible to tell the differences: Fëanor had worked every detail of the automat with exquisiteness - even his skin had the smooth appearance of real skin. But she knew it was just that: a very well-made doll. It was undoubtedly a great success, a gigantic step in the development of software; but it would take a long time for it to get emotional - if it ever happened.

"I don't want to hear another word," Finwë interjected, advancing on his son. “I don't know where you got those falsehoods, those… blasphemies; but I will not tolerate you repeating them. I have allowed you to continue this madness for too long. You're going to get rid of ... this. You are going to destroy it and ...”

“Are you out of your mind?” Fëanor roared. “Do you want me to kill him? When do I finally have him?”

"He is not an elf! You can't murder a _thing_! Don't talk as if ...! Indis, what are you doing ?!”

The queen had risen to cross the room in the direction of her stepson. However, upon reaching him, she ignored him to stand directly in front of the automaton.

Fingolfin threw back his head when the queen raised a hand. For a second, it seemed like he was going to pull away; but then he froze.

Indis's fingers touched the doll's temple, traced an eyebrow, went down the nose, drew the lips ... A laugh escaped from the queen's mouth.

"Indis?" Finwë repeated, frowning.

"He has your nose," she said, fascinated, redrawing the automaton's nose. “And my mouth. His eyes ... his eyes are just how I dreamed they would be, Finwë. Isn’t he beautiful? He is just as I had imagined him… as I imagined him at the beginning, when I still had hopes that… Can you eat?” she asked, addressing the automaton.

Fingolfin blinked, as if he wasn't ready to be questioned. He frowned slightly, analyzing the question.

"I haven't tried. I think not ... Fëanor won't let me bite corrosive things.”

Indis was stunned for a moment. She immediately burst out laughing.

“Oh darling! I'm not going to give you anything corrosive. We do not eat corrosive substances. You must listen to Fëanor: corrosive is bad. Well, we won't eat for now. We will discover little by little what you can do and what not without getting hurt. Come sit with me.”

She took him by the hand and pulled him toward her seat. At the astonished gaze of her husband, Indis pulled a chair and made the automat sit down.

"Fingolfin," she said gently. “It is such a beautiful name. Fëanor chose it for you, you know? When Finwë and I made you ... many years ago already. You have grown a lot since then. You've changed a lot, ” she added, reaching out to stroke his hair as tears ran down her cheeks. “And, despite everything, you are just as I dreamed you.”

Fingolfin reached out and touched the queen's wet cheek with his fingertip.

"Madam," he said, leaning his head on one shoulder, "does seeing me make you sad? Do you want me to go?”

“No! No, little one, I don't want you to ever leave. And you don't have to call me ‘madam’. It's okay if, while we're here, you call me 'mom.' “


	9. Chapter 9

Taniquetil.

Fëanor raised the glass to his lips and took a short sip. He held the wine in his mouth for a second before swallowing it, and then he glanced at the content that was still in his glass. He pouted.

"At least the wine is still good," he commented to himself.

He took another sip and refocused his attention on the tall white tower. Taniquetil had been built long before the elves' arrival in Aman: it lacked the stylized lines that later elvish architects developed. Instead, Taniquetil's appearance seemed coarse when compared to later buildings; but for the elves it still represented the majesty and power of the Valar, something that could only be contained in a primitive style - pristine, some would say.

"Mom says we must go."

Fëanor turned to see Fingolfin dressed in a traditional elven robe, matching his own clothing. The details that were red and gold on the crown prince's clothes, on the automaton were blue and silver. He really looked like Fëanor's brother.

The Valar's letter had arrived a few hours before the royal family set out on the journey to Valimar for the Annual Flower Festival: Manwë was interested in seeing with his own eyes the progress made by the prince of the Noldor. Fingolfin traveled with them.

Indis had become too attached to Fingolfin. She insisted that he spend at least four hours with her every day and spent those hours teaching him about different subjects: history, economics, manners, protocol, arts ... The queen had also insisted on taking care of the automat's wardrobe.

Finwë was least satisfied with these arrangements and even insisted on keeping Fëanor's achievement with the creation of the silmarils secret. The news, however, had reached the Valar.

“Mom?” Fëanor repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Fingolfin blinked several times - each time faster and more spontaneously.

"Is it wrong for me to call her that? She insisted ...”

"Don't do it in front of the others," the prince warned as he approached him and raised a hand to caress the cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “You are beautiful.”

"You made me so," Fingolfin agreed, and his eyes lit up as they fixed on Fëanor.

Fëanor smiled and slid his hand to cup the automaton's cheek. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Fingolfin's.

"Come on," he said after a few minutes and pulled away. “Father will be impatient if we don't go soon.”

"Your father doesn't like me, does he?" Fingolfin commented starting to walk next to him.

"He has to get used to you, that's all."

“He doesn’t like me. Is he ... afraid ... of me?”

"Why would he be afraid of you?" Fëanor smiled. “You are beautiful and you would not harm anyone. Father is just ... confused. He will get used to you.”

They had reached the staircase and Fëanor stopped when he saw the king and queen waiting for them. Indis smiled at Fingolfin. Finwë, on the other hand, turned around and started down.

………………………………

The throne room was so bright that it seemed to be daytime. Glass lamps hung from the ceiling and rose on gold bases. Gems embedded in the walls returned light in polychromatic sparkles. The center of the room was occupied by a replica of the Trees. Silver light emanated from the Telperion’s copy, emitted by its flowers. Laurelin's copy emitted golden light, in its case through the smooth round fruits. In the background, on top of a dais covered by a red and gold carpet, were the thrones of the Valar. The two biggest were for Manwë and Varda, and the rest were reserved for the other Valar, descending from the most powerful to the least revered among the elves.

Representatives of the Three Clans swarmed in the room. Ingwë and his sister were a few meters from the dais. They were accompanied by Elemir, the Chronicler and Bard of the Vanyarin Court. Nearby, Olwë Ciriáran was conversing with his wife and sister-in-law. Rúmil had approached to greet both kings and was now conversing with Elemir, awaiting the presence of the King of Arda. Finwë, who arrived shortly after his friend, had chosen to stay behind, accompanied by Indis and his son ... and a third elf that no one recognized.

A melody was heard above the music performed by the orchestra. The talks stopped and everyone present turned to face the thrones. A much more intense light than the one generated by the numerous lamps illuminated the dais and as it diminished, the Valar appeared in all their glory. The elves bowed respectfully, from Ingwë to the least of the attendants.

Manwë wore a blue outfit that highlighted his white hair, adorned by a pure diamond headband. Beside him, Varda wore night blue, her cloak and her black hair strewn with gems that imitated the stars.

The beauty of the pair of gods dimmed the light in the room.

"Welcome, Children of Ilúvatar," said Manwë in a clear voice, filling every corner of the room. “We are pleased to have you on this new occasion to celebrate the gifts that the All’s Father has granted us. One more year has passed and the Sun and the Moon continue to illuminate and guide our steps ...”

"The gifts of the All’s Father?" Fëanor commented under his breath. “As I recall, the Sun and Moon were made by the Valar after Melkor destroyed the Trees, were they not?”

"Keep quiet," his father ordered in a whisper, without turning to look at him.

Fëanor grimaced and refocused his attention on Manwë's speech.

“... This year we have a double reason for celebration”, said the Vala while opening his arms in a gesture to encompass all those present. “Rejoice, Children of Ilúvatar, the brother who was lost has found the way back to the love of Our Father, to the Music of the World. Our brother Melkor has understood his mistakes and has regretted them. Today he comes to us with a heart full of repentance and the will to redeem himself. Let us welcome him with open arms and an open heart.”

It was at that moment that everyone noticed that before the throne of Manwë was a smaller seat, located so that it was not completely facing the hall, but rather turned towards the king.

Melkor appeared without flashes of light. His shape only materialized discreetly, as if formed from the very air of the place. He was dressed in gray and white and wore his red and black hair tied up in a thick, unadorned braid that fell to his mid-back.

The repentant Vala bowed deeply to his brother and king, and remained still, head bowed. Manwë descended a step to approach him and held out a silver-white hand. Melkor hesitated for a few seconds before taking the slender fingers between his and devoutly bringing them to his lips. Manwë held Melkor's hand in his as he looked back to the circle.

"Let the Festival of Redemption begin," he announced before occupying his throne.

Manwë's words indicated that the music was restarting and with it, the attendees approached to pay their respects to the Valar.

The first was Ingwë with his companions. After the Supreme King of the Elves it was the turn of the Noldóran.

Finwë would have liked to delay that moment all night. He did not want to confront the Valar, Varda's inquiring gaze, Námo's attention ... not with an automaton behind him, not with material evidence that his son had violated the Valar’s ban.

"Finwë," said Manwë when the King of the Noldor bowed before them, "interesting rumors have reached our ears. They say your son has had great success in recent days.”

"My lord, my son will be delighted to answer all your questions," the king reported without meeting the gaze of the divine sovereign.

The Vala's blue glass eyes strayed to Fëanor and the corners of his mouth rose.

“Prince Fëanor, I would like to extend my congratulations to you; but I don't want to rush. Is it true that you have managed to advance the design of a program for those toys of yours?”

Fëanor bit the inside of his cheek while making a slight bow.

"It is true, my lord," he agreed. “Let me introduce you to Fingolfin.”

Stepping aside, he revealed the automaton.

Fingolfin took a step and stopped, looking at Fëanor with an uncertain expression.

There was a movement of surprise among the Valar and silence spread across the room. Now all eyes were on the elf who accompanied the Noldorin Royal Family and everyone was aware that _'that'_ was not an elf.

"It is a precious toy," declared Manwë. “I didn't hear its code ...”

"Fingolfin is not a toy," replied Fëanor, and turning to the android once more, he ordered in a low voice: "Dear, greet the King of Arda."

Fingolfin shyly nodded and made a perfect caravan, just as Indis taught him.

"It is an honor to appear before you, Masters of Arda," he declared in a clear voice.

Manwë looked at the doll with an expressionless face. After a few seconds, he returned his attention to Fëanor.

"Impeccable programming."

"We have been teaching him manners," the prince agreed. “His programming encompasses much more than bowing and greeting, I assure you, King of Arda.”

"I suppose we should find out how much," the King of Arda smiled, and a slight cold air emanated from his presence.

Fingolfin took a step back, returning to Fëanor's side and before Manwë's frown, he took the hand of his creator, hiding his face behind his shoulder.

“What…?” Fëanor began to ask, puzzled.

“He is afraid.”

They all turned to look at Námo, who stood up and lowered the platform to approach them. Fëanor straightened, as if waiting for the Vala to try something against his partner. Fingolfin moved closer to the elf, glancing at Námo.

"That is impossible," said Varda. “A toy cannot ...”

"But Fingolfin is not a toy," interrupted the Vala, looking closely at the automaton. “As Prince Fëanor has said. Fingolfin is... special.”

Fingolfin looked up at last and met the silver eyes of the god. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Námo turned in front of Manwë.

"I say we should let Prince Fëanor continue his peculiar investigation. What harm can it do? Fingolfin represents no danger and his ... condition is unique.”

Manwë still watched the automaton and finally nodded silently. Námo gave a lopsided smile and turned his attention back to Fingolfin.

"I would like to better understand this achievement of yours, Prince Fëanor," he said.

"There is still much to do. Fingolfin is not ready ...”

"Fingolfin will never be ready," the Vala declared, his expression enigmatic. “You want him perfect and perfection, Fëanor, is an elusive concept. However, as he is, Fingolfin is ... special.”

Fëanor did not reply. With a bow, he turned away from the Vala, dragging Fingolfin with him.

Námo followed them with his eyes before slowly returning to his seat. Manwë was now being greeted by Olwë, lord of the Teleri, and had ceased to care about Fëanor and his toy. Námo, however, noticed that someone else was looking in the direction of the Noldorin Prince. Leaning over his shoulder, Námo muttered into Melkor's ear:

"You shouldn't look that long, brother: Prince Fëanor is jealous of his possessions."

"I am only amazed at his wits, Brother Námo," Melkor murmured, lowering his eyes humbly before raising them to him.

Námo smiled more broadly. Like a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I had this image of Námo as the Cheshire Cat.


	10. Chapter 10

The festivities would last two weeks - long enough for Fingolfin's existence to be known to everyone and to become the main attraction at every ball.

Finwë initially suggested that the automaton remain in their rooms; but when Tirion's royal family first attended an evening without him, Námo himself asked Prince Fëanor not to stop bringing 'his intriguing companion' next time. The next night, Fingolfin was again with his creator.

A week after being the center of attention, Fingolfin, however, no longer wanted to be in the midst of all those looks, the murmurs, the not-so-whispered comments ... If most people had not dared to touch him it was because they did not wish to disturb Fëanor.

On his sixth evening at the Court of Valimar, the automaton was in a remote corner of the room, half hiding behind the curtains. Fëanor had been with him until just now; but some members of the Science Community had insisted that he join their debate and the automaton had asked to be left behind. Now Fingolfin was looking at the room with an absent expression.

"Really the Crown Prince's talent is ... incomparable."

Fingolfin blinked and focused his gaze on the stranger before him. He studied him for a few seconds and in a monotonous voice, said:

"Melkor, the rebellious Vala. You destroyed the Trees when being unable to steal their light and use it for your own benefit. Judge Námo sentenced you to three ages in prison in Mandos. How many years of the Sun do three ages equal? Tree Years were measured differently. By the mixture of the lights.” He leaned his head on one shoulder, not taking his eyes off Melkor's face. “I cannot understand how you established the cycle. Did Laurelin's hours of splendor equal the day? Telperion at night? Or were those concepts not considered at all? Which would have been rare, considering that there are early references to the concepts of night and day ...”

"How much information did the little prince put on your programming?" Melkor interrupted, smiling, as he got closer to him.

“A good part of which he himself owns… 92.34567%. Approximately. I have added some details on my own: it is easy to access the files stored in public databases. Especially if they are in full view of everyone.”

Melkor raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think the 'early references' to day and night are found in public databases. In view of all.”

Fingolfin blinked. Looking away from the Vala, he glanced around and finally stopped his eyes on one of the curtains. He reached out and ran the tip of a finger across the knitting pattern on the fabric.

"In full view," he repeated quietly.

The Vala followed the trail of his finger, frowning with interest.

"Vairë," he murmured.

"My wife is over there. With Queen Indis. If you want to consult something with her ...”

Melkor turned to Námo, smirking.

“Brother, what a joy that you came to share with us. Actually, we were appreciating Vairë's work. Uh ... Prince Fëanor's automaton made me notice the interesting pattern on these ... curtains.”

"I see," Námo agreed, not taking a look at the curtains. “Our Lord was looking for you just now. I came looking for you on his behalf.”

"Ah, so, I'm going back to our brother. Will you accompany me?”

“Better not. As in your case, my curiosity has also been aroused by ... Fingolfin”, he concluded, focusing his attention on the automaton.

Fingolfin, until then a silent witness to the exchange between the two Valar, raised his eyes to Námo's face and watched him carefully, without blinking an eye.

Melkor nodded and walked away, disappearing into the circle.

Námo still watched Fingolfin for a few minutes.

"I am puzzled that Fëanor left you alone. He seems very attached to you.”

"He made me."

"Did he? I understood that your origin was at the hands of Finwë and Indis.”

Fingolfin frowned softly.

“That's how it went. My… initial body was designed by Finwë and Indis; but it was Fëanor who developed my physical evolution and the programming that allows me ... to imitate the behavior of the elves.”

“Imitate. You are too aware of your limitations”, Námo declared as he got closer to him.

Fingolfin backed away, sticking to the wall.

The Vala smiled.

"You didn't imitate that."

“Self-preservation instinct can be programmed into any machine. In the face of a detected threat or danger, the most basic software provides protection of its data for its preservation. I am…”

"You are not just _another software_, Fingolfin. You are unique. And your creator knows it; but he still hasn't understood how much. You could…”

"Why did Melkor seem surprised by the fact that I knew the references to the day and night before the Trees? Am not I supposed to know them? Because I am an automaton?

Námo's smile twisted to the right.

"Ask Fëanor," he suggested as he stepped aside to make way for his.

Fingolfin watched him for a moment. At last he started walking, taking leave.

A small alarm turned on inside him as he crossed the room. He had never moved through the crowd without Fëanor's hand holding his. For an instant, he became disoriented and an inexplicable emptiness gripped his brain, preventing him from moving forward.

The elves withdrew in his wake; but only to turn to stare at him. With the help of the data stored in his center, Fingolfin identified the different expressions with which they looked at him: contempt, envy, repulsion ... _hunger_? He was surprised that they could watch him with hunger when he was sure he was not considered edible - he even knew that certain corrosive substances might be inside him.

When he reached the other end of the room, he realized that he had not found Fëanor and without looking back, he went through the door to take the corridor before him.

He knew the way to the rooms that were destined for the royal family and he guessed that if Fëanor had abandoned the dance, it was there that he would be. He stopped when he reached the double-leaf door adorned with gold stars that indicated access to the rooms. At that time, he analyzed that it was unlikely that Fëanor had left leaving him behind. In all likelihood, the prince was still in the hall and looking for him. After a moment, however, Fingolfin decided it was best to stay in the room and wait there for Fëanor's return.

He entered the room and closed the door behind him. He crossed the reception room without stopping, going directly to the prince's bedroom; but when he got to it, he detected a noise coming from the next door and changed direction.

He put his hand on the door and listened. A groan reached his ears and Fingolfin identified the sound as an expression of pain. The voice was unmistakably feminine and he scanned his memories to identify it.

Nerdanel's image projected into his mind. Was the female in danger?

At that moment, another voice reached him and this time, he did not need to search his memories to recognize it. Without further analyzing the situation, he opened the door and stood on the threshold, watching.

The room was the cabinet attached to Fëanor's room and its furniture consisted of a desk and several seats. On top of said desk, Nerdanel was lying - her red hair loose around her head and the top of her dress unbuttoned to the waist, showing her breasts and belly. The dark green skirt swirled at her hips and between her thighs, Fëanor stood. The ponytail into which he had gathered his dark mane had loosened. The burgundy tunic was a heap at his feet and the pants fell below his hips, exposing the start of his tanned buttocks.

Fingolfin studied every detail of the scene, counting the time it took for Fëanor to retreat and thrust between the female's legs. He detailed the ragged breathing, the rhythmic movements, the perspiration that covered the skins of both ...

Copulation. Intercourse. He had misinterpreted the sounds. Neither of them experienced pain ... but pleasure.

Fingolfin looked at Fëanor's face: the contracted eyebrows, the parted lips, the focused gaze… he had never seen him like this. He looked down at Nerdanel and his pupils widened. The female seemed in a trance: with unfocused eyes, she made moans and gasps that she only interrupted to moisten her lips. Her face expressed an emotion that the automaton could not locate.

Nerdanel turned her head, trying to breathe easier, and caught a glimpse of the figure clutching the handle. A scream escaped her lips.

"By Varda, Fëanor! What's **that** doing here?”

Fëanor followed the direction of her gaze while stopping the thrusts.

“What…? Fingolfin!” He frowned. “What do you do…?”

"I was looking for you," replied the automaton, and took a step forward. “To ask you a question.”

Fëanor rushed away from Nerdanel and pulled his pants up, adjusting his erection so he could close them. Nerdanel, meanwhile, jumped off the table and turned to fix her clothes.

"You can't go in like this," replied the prince, reaching for him to grab his arm and lead him outside.

“I heard moans. I thought you were in trouble.”

"Oh for Varda Elentári!" Nerdanel exclaimed again as she turned towards them, already fully dressed. “You have to do something with it, Fëanor. You can't let it wander freely. You should tell the servants to watch it. Or make sure you have saved it before… dedicating yourself to other things.”

Fingolfin stiffened. Saved it? Did that mean Fëanor was going to put him in a box?

"Don't talk to him like that, Nerdanel," the elf growled. “He is like a child. He doesn't know what he does.”

"It's a doll. He can't understand ...”

"I know what you were doing," Fingolfin interrupted, frowning. “You were having sex. Experiencing pleasure.”

Nerdanel gaped at him before flushing red. She turned to Fëanor.

"You need to check its programming urgently."

The prince, however, was enthusiastic about the automaton's words.

“You know? Do you understand the concept of pleasure, Fingolfin?”

"It's enjoying something ... with all your senses. With your body ... and your mind.”

"Quite accurate," agreed Fëanor.

Fingolfin watched him for a few seconds. He looked away at Nerdanel and then back at the prince.

"I want to," he said. “I want to experience it.”

Fëanor frowned.

"Do you ... want to have sex with a female?" He inquired.

Fingolfin looked back at Nerdanel, who grimaced.

"Oh, for the Valar. I’ll get out of here. Find me when you stop playing with your new toy, Fëanor. And seriously, check its programming.”

She went to the door and slammed the door.

"Fingolfin," Fëanor called, in a serious tone. “Do you want to have sex with a female?”

Fingolfin looked at him without blinking.

“With you. I want to feel like her ... with you. I want you to feel that way… with me.”


	11. Chapter 11

‘You're not ready yet.’

Fingolfin reviewed Fëanor's words. In his mind, he studied the tone, minced the exact intonation of each word, repeated over and over again the accent with which each syllable was pronounced. He was used to Fëanor’s way of speaking, who had put many of his memories and conceptions in his programming; but he had chosen to combine Indis' vanyarin accent with Finwë's noldorin to give Fingolfin his own voice.

Ready. He was not ready.

Fingolfin was sitting erect, staring at the golden city that lay at the foot of the Valar's palace. Dark silky hair fell forward, down his chest, to rest on his bare thighs. He was wearing only a linen shirt, open at the front.

Long ago, each joint in his body had been made up of separate, rounded pieces. Fingolfin had seen the blueprints of his improvements over the years in Fëanor's workshop and had also seen his old self in the digital images the prince kept. Now, his entire appearance mimicked that of an elf; but he wasn't one. He was an imitation.

He was not ready. He was not ready. He had disappointed Fëanor. He was not ready. He was useless.

…………………………………………

Fëanor rolled onto the bed and reached out to feel the bed next to him. He woke with a start. Ever since Fingolfin woke up, Fëanor had become accustomed to sleeping with him by his side and waking up to find his eyes full of intelligence, of curiosity, _of life._

He jumped up on the bed, looking around. His gaze lingered on the window. Against the glass, Fingolfin's motionless silhouette was cut out. Fëanor felt his heart stop.

He jumped out of bed, tangling with the sheet in his haste to run toward Fingolfin. All those nights when his only joy was to return to his chambers to delight in the lifeless beauty of his companion returned now; but instead of bliss, he only felt despair, pain, helplessness writhing in his chest and strangling his heart.

He fell to his knees before the chair occupied by the automaton and rested his hands on his knees.

"Fingolfin ..." he called in a whisper, almost fearful.

For a few seconds, the automaton continued to face outward. At last, very slowly, he turned his head and met the prince's gaze.

A giggle of relief welled up on Fëanor's lips.

"Oh Eru," he sighed. “For a moment I thought ... I thought you ... I almost ... Why did you leave the bed?”

"I don't sleep," Fingolfin replied evenly. “Lying in bed represents nothing more than the imitation of a behavior that does not bring me benefits.”

Fëanor frowned. In all those weeks together, Fingolfin had expressed criteria, had established facts, offered information, questioned situations ... with the tone of a child who discovered the world. It was the first time he had spoken to him like… the machine that he was.

“I do not understand. I thought ... you liked ...”

"I feel comfortable lying next to you. I am useful. Attending my programming, I had understood that this was my function: to accompany you, make you happy ... give you pleasure. My judgment was wrong.”

“What…?”

"I am not ready to supply the most basic of your needs."

Fëanor blinked several times, stunned.

Ready. Ready? Ready!

"Is it because of what I told you tonight?" He asked. “After you saw me with Nerdanel. Is that why you're ... here?”

“Yes.”

The simple answer surprised Fëanor the most. It was unheard of. Fingolfin had not come to such an understanding of an emotion that he could imitate jealousy.

“Fingolfin, I think you didn't understand…”

"I realized I was wrong. I thought you had designed me to be your partner; but I can't be your partner because I'm not ready. My programming does not meet the requirements for ...”

“Enough!” He silenced him, closing his eyes tight.

Fingolfin obeyed, standing still.

Fëanor opened his eyes and studied him for a moment. Straightening up on his knees, he took the face of the automaton with one hand and pulled it, forcing him to bend down so that their foreheads touched.

"Enough," he repeated in a low growl. “Yes I created you to be my partner. I have dreamed -Since they gave you to me, I knew that you would be much more than a copy of the brother that they could not give me. You are part of me.”

On impulse, he joined his lips to Fingolfin's. He kissed him desperately, biting him smooth mouth, licking the firm line at which his lips joined. For a few minutes, Fëanor stopped struggling against the desire that he nurtured in almost two hundred years, the desire that he had not yet satisfied...

At last, he drew back, breathing heavily. He did not take his hands from the face of the automaton as he ran his features with a burning gaze.

Fingolfin remained motionless, his blue eyes with silver flashes fixed on Fëanor's dilated pupils. Very slowly, he leaned his head on one shoulder.

“I –I don’t understand ..." he modulated very low. “You said I didn't ...”

"You're not ready for what I want -everything I want from you. But I do want ... oh gods, how I want!” He roared softly as he pushed himself once more to kiss him with wild eagerness.

This time, Fingolfin parted his lips and tried to stick his tongue out. Little by little, he began to imitate Fëanor's movements. It was not difficult.

His sensors registered the changes in Fëanor: the increase in heart rate, the slightly higher temperature, the short moans that erupted hoarsely with each breath. For a second, Fingolfin considered stopping the exchange to check that Fëanor was fine.

He didn't get to put the idea into practice because Fëanor stood up while kissing him and only parted enough to take Fingolfin by the hands. He tugged for him to stand up too.

"Come," he invited in a hoarse voice.

Fingolfin obeyed like a well-trained pet. He followed Fëanor to the bed.

Fëanor felt his skin burn from the inside. It had been a terrible few weeks, sleeping next to him, feeling the velvety skin against his, embracing the still body, remembering every time in the past when he succumbed to fantasies ... aware that fantasies would no longer be enough.

He guided Fingolfin to the bed and gently pushed him to sit on the edge.

"Lie down," he ordered. “On your back. Take off your shirt first, ” he added hastily.

Fingolfin obeyed, standing still among the rumpled sheets, staring at the ceiling.

Fëanor climbed onto the bed and knelt astride the automaton's hips. He leaned forward and this time, he explored Fingolfin's face with his lips, slowly.

The automaton did not move when their gazes met in the semi-darkness created by the elf's hair as it fell on either side of them, up to the mattress.

The prince descended the doll's neck, caressing his chest with his open hands as if it were the first time he had walked it. He kissed and licked the nipples, the smooth abdomen, the line where the pelvis joined the thigh, naked. Of course, Fingolfin's body had no hairiness; it was smooth and soft, like freshly made baby skin. But he wasn't a baby. He never had been.

Fingolfin blinked, puzzled. He blinked again as an unknown sensation rose from the beginning of his thighs to the base of his skull. What was that? He tried to straighten up; but the weight of Fëanor's body forced him to continue lying down, only managing to raise his head.

He watched as Fëanor licked between his thighs, circling his limp genitals. He blinked several times.

“Why…?”

The crown prince's laughter caressed his skin, unleashing another stream of sensations - this time down to his toes, which curled out of control.

"I gave you my best," Fëanor explained maliciously, before licking again at the base of his penis. “I studied our bodies ... in detail ... just to design ... optimize your design ... The best just for you ... Fingolfin.”

He took his penis in one hand and held it with his tongue, then explored it again with parted lips.

Receptors. Fëanor had placed receptors on his skin. In all his skin. Stimulus receptors. Like-like-like those of… Receptors all over his body, he understood when the sensations made him arch slightly.

Fëanor enjoyed the slow hardening of the member in his mouth. This was what he had worked for. So that every aspect in Fingolfin would imitate the reaction - emotional and physiological - of a real body.

He got up on his knees to meet the surprised gaze of the automaton. He smiled, licking his lips, and leaned down to kiss Fingolfin before reaching for the nightstand to rummage through the drawer.

Fingolfin did not move, looking puzzled at his erect penis. How was it…? He knew the role to be played, but no ... He still did not understand how...

Fëanor uncapped the gel bottle and poured a little on his fingers. He stretched out next to Fingolfin and taking him by the chin with his free hand, turned his head to kiss him as he moved his hand between his own thighs.

It didn't take him long to get ready. He had done this hundreds of times before using his sex toys while watching and kissing the automaton, only this time it wouldn't be a dildo that would fill him up.

A trickle of saliva joined their mouths as Fëanor drew back to put one leg over Fingolfin's hips. He sat up slowly, straddling him, and gradually descended into the erection, hissing as his insides stretched, until he was sitting on top of him. He threw his head back, with a hoarse moan of satisfaction.

"Oh Eru," he gasped, pressing his clenched hands to the automaton's belly. “It's so ... How I wanted this ... during ... Oh Eru!”

He shifted on the hard shaft that filled him, drawing brief circles, waving his hips back and forth before finally rising to his knees and descending again slowly. And again.

After a moment, Fëanor moaned hoarsely as he rose and fell in the artificial boner.

Fingolfin's blue eyes with silver sparkles watched every reaction, studying it, processing it, filing it… safekeeping it.


End file.
